


damn your love; damn your lies

by NinjaFairy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Disturbing Themes, Dom/sub Undertones, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Exhibitionism, F/M, Forced Masturbation, Incest, Lust, Manipulation, Masturbation, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Prostitution, Self-Fulfilling Prophecy, Sibling Incest, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 22:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18158036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinjaFairy/pseuds/NinjaFairy
Summary: If he were being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure when it all began – this sick obsession of his.Perhaps it all began when he caught her with that Muggle boy from the village when she was only sixteen.Perhaps it all began on the evening when he first found out about her existence, found out about her magic.Or, perhaps, this sickness had always been with him. Maybe the same, depraved sickness from his mother’s side of the family infected his blood, as well.





	damn your love; damn your lies

**Special Note:**  If you have read my other stories, then you know that, as a rule, I generally  _do not_  give trigger warnings. This rule still applies, but I am going to stress that this story will  ** _not_**  be for everyone. Heed the tags. If it's there, it will be in the story and it won't be shown in a positive light. There will be content in this story that may make you uncomfortable. You've been warned.

 

 

**chapter one.**

 

* * *

 

In the dim lights, ragged moans, and twanging oriental music of an opium den in underground London, Tom sat back, self-possessed, in a worn armchair in a dark corner of the room, letting his eyes wander.

Filthy, dented mattresses, stuffed with  _gods_  knew what, lined the room. Trays of opium were positioned between them for customers to share with whatever company they'd purchased for the night. It smelled like a sickening, swirling vortex of sex, body odor, and opium – the incense they'd lit to mask the other offending scents were nothing but a mere afterthought. His upper lip curled in disgust; as far as opium dens went, this was one of the better ones in London. The other patrons in the den were too busy warming their pipes over oil lamps, making whores release compensated moans, or they were passed out in their own drug-induced haze to pay much attention to anything else going on – not like there was anything else they could possibly be interested in, other than their own unhealthy fixations.

Speaking of…

His eyes focused in on a pair of moving bodies on the other side of the darkened room. Her back was to him, and her hair was pulled back, but he'd know that unruly head of hair anywhere. She was wearing a deep red kimono that clung to her tightly in all the areas where it mattered most, for a night like tonight. His eyes started where her knees were bent on a dirty mattress, one strategically placed on either side of the old man's lap she was currently straddling.

Tom absently rolled his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, letting it burn. The man's fingers dug deep into the tops of her thighs and his head lolled against the wall his back was propped against, his eyes screwed shut in senseless, selfish pleasure. Tom focused in on the way she leisurely rolled her hips against the man's erection again and he struggled to tame the rage building in his chest and his arousal straining against his trousers. He had to remember that he was here for a reason – a reason far more important that his irrational jealousy and shameful lust.

It that moment, their eyes locked through the dense fog of opium smoke.

It was time.

Tom tapped the ashes away and deliberately brought it up to his mouth to take a long drag, his eyes never leaving hers. Cherry embers from the burnt tobacco flared to life in the dark, then dimmed to a soft glow.

They broke eye contact when she leaned over to the tray sitting next to the mattress, picking up a long pipe and warming it over the flame. The man's glazed eyes opened to see why she'd stopped moving, and didn't appear to be disappointed when she playfully brought the pipe to her mouth first with a small smile, never inhaling, then pressed it against his next. The man's eyelids were heavy with lust as he inhaled deeply. They stayed that way, even after she deftly reached into his shirt, her fingers clasping around a chain, and yanked. They stayed that way, even after she rose from his lap and walked out of the den. They stayed that way, even after Tom took one last drag from his cigarette, squashed it out underneath his shoe and followed after her.

When he stepped out into the darkness of the empty street, there was no sign of her. He walked down the road, his footsteps echoing into the night. As he was approaching an empty alleyway, that's when he felt it – her magical signature. It was violent. Tempestuous. Furious.

He shivered, then smiled.

Tom looked to make sure no one was around, then stepped into the darkness with his wand drawn, prepared for a fight. His eyes strained to find her small figure, her familiar scent. She was here, he knew it.

A yellow curse shot out from the darkness at him and he deflected it easily, then returned the gift with one of his own. She repelled it as easily as he had with hers. They did this for what could have only been seconds, Tom quickly closing the distance between them with each spell he sent. She cried out in rage as she sent out one last curse at him, because she knew this little game of theirs was over.

Tom sent her wand flying, heard it clatter to the broken concrete, then his fist was balled in her hair in an instant. She yelped in pain, her hands flying to his fist in her hair, clawing at it savagely. He pressed her roughly against the brick wall, the front of his body molding against her back. Her hands flew from his balled fist to brace herself against the wall, keeping the rough brick edges from biting into her skin.

"You did  _so_  well tonight, Hermione," he said, his tone a strange mixture of pride and resentment and something else. "So well, in fact, that even  _I_  almost believed your little performance."

Hermione's right cheek pressed into the wall, her teeth bared as she spat out a gracious and heartfelt, " _Fuck you_."

Tom tightened his hold on her hair and clicked his tongue, reprimanding her. "Foul language doesn't suit you at all. Whatever would our father think?"

Something in her posture changed, slackened against him. Angry tears trickled down her cheeks, washing away the smudged kohl.

"How should I know?" she asked bitterly. "He's  _dead_."

Tom leaned forward, planted a loving kiss to her temple, then he whispered in her ear, "And you'd do best to remember that, dear sister. Remember who picked up your broken pieces, when no one else wanted to."

"I  _hate_  you," she whispered viciously.

Not far from where they'd come from, the unmistakable sound of men and women shouting at each other in Mandarin broke through their tense silence. They'd discovered Burke's body quicker than he'd been expecting.

"I know," he replied, giving her temple another quick kiss before letting go of her hair and moving away from her. "Come, it's time to go."

Hermione moved away from him to collect her wand, then took his outstretched hand as if nothing had happened at all, and he apparated them on the spot.

* * *

As soon as they arrived at their destination, Hermione wrenched away from his grasp, and stormed up the steps to their home – Riddle Manor. Tom watched her swing the doors open with an angry flick of her wand, not bothering to close them behind her as she made her way up the stairs.

"Hermione," he called up to her once he stepped inside. She was halfway up the stairs when she whirled around, glaring down at him. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Confusion flit across her face for a second before she realized what he was talking about. Her scowl deepened, reaching down the front of her kimono, between her breasts, and pulled out a silver chain. Dangling at the end was an ugly, amber-colored jewel encased in silver.

"You mean  _this_?" she asked snidely.

The smile that had been on his face fell at her tone. She behaved, most of the time, but when she got like this, she was unpredictable.

"Hermione…" he warned.

"What is it?" she snapped. "Are you worried, Tom? Worried I won't give you your  _precious_ heirloom back? We both know you always take whatever you want, without consequence. That's all you know how to do."

"You're being dramatic again. Give me the locket, draw yourself a bath, and then go to bed," he ordered.

She stomped her foot and let out a frustrated scream. "I am  _nineteen_ , Tom! You need to stop treating me like a child!"

"It's awfully hard not to, when you're acting as such," he snapped back.

Hermione's face twisted from rage to calm ruthlessness in a heartbeat. "Was I acting as a child when you were watching me ride Burke's cock?"

Tom was fuming, and as much as he tried to fend it off, the image was planted, once again, in his mind's eye. The way her hands smoothed over the older man's chest, the way she rocked her covered mound against the cock straining against his stained underwear, the way her head fell back in false ecstasy whenever Burke's greedy hands found her breasts through her kimono.

It filled him with disgust. It filled him with lustful envy. It filled him with self-loathing at the fact that he felt the way that he did. It filled him with that possessive rage he'd felt earlier in the night, that he often felt whenever it came to her.

Tom didn't say anything, so she continued her taunts, a cruel smile on her face. "You liked watching me do it, didn't you?"

He didn't say anything or break eye contact with her as he rushed up the stairs after her; and she didn't weaken under his fiery glare. If anything, it only egged her on.

Her voice rose in pitch, hurried, and she took clumsy steps backward up the stairs as she tried to get the rest of what she wanted to say to him out of her before he caught her and punished her for her cheek. "I'd wager you  _loved_  it! I'd wager your cock was  _weeping_  at the mere  _thought_  of being inside me!"

She was at the top of the stairs when he caught her around her wrists and slammed them against the wall on either side of her head, causing the oil portraits of her mother and their father on either side of her to rattle in their frames.

 _Gods_ , how he hated those paintings the most, more than anything else in the world, but they were the only ones he kept in the mansion after he'd inherited it five years ago. He'd kept them for one reason, and one reason only: she said if he ever got rid of them, she'd leave. Leave the manor. Leave him.

Tom knew she was bluffing,  _probably_ , but it wasn't something he'd been willing to risk. And so, the paintings that so mockingly resembled himself and Hermione stayed nailed to the wall.

Hermione struggled against his grasp, but his violence didn't hinder her words. She gave another cruel smile. "I'd wager you wished it were really  _you_ I'd been riding, instead. Am I right, brother?"

Tom was trembling with rage at how right she was.  _God_ , how he hated how right she was.  _God_ , how he wanted her.  _God_ , how he hated himself for it. There was no way in Hell he was going to repeat the disgusting mistakes made on the other side of his family.

He brought his face down to hers and growled out, "You wicked,  _insolent_  girl."

"I've seen the way you look at me. Don't attempt to deny it," she accused.

As if to make a point, Hermione wedged a thigh between his legs and pressed against his groin. He sucked in a sharp breath, surprised by her boldness and surprised by the fact that he was already hard.

"Look at you, so eager to  _fuck_  your own sister. You're  _sick_ ," she spat between clenched teeth.

He wasn't sure which was racing faster – his heart or his head. The way she was staring at him now shocked him down to his core. He found hatred in her gaze. Hatred and disgust and most surprising of all,  _hunger_ ; and,  _God,_  was he tempted. Tempted to follow through with her words and just take whatever he wanted, without consequence. Tempted to prove her right and fuck her,  _hard_ , up against this wall, between her parent's paintings. It would be beautifully symbolic, really – some sort of fucked up, self-fulfilling prophecy. After all the time and effort and lies spun by their father to keep the two of them ignorant of each other's existence, only to have his firstborn son – abandoned, cast out, unloved – burying himself to the hilt inside the daughter from his father's second marriage, who he'd loved so dearly.

Exacting revenge on a dead man through proxy. How poetic.

"Take it," she ordered breathily, breaking him out of his depraved thoughts. Her eyelids heavy as her gaze skimmed over his face, settling on his lips. "You know you want to."

Tom stared at her, in the process of comprehending the gravity of her words, when she opened her fist and the locket dropped heavily to the floor.

Feeling foolish for jumping to conclusions, he swallowed thickly and released her.

"But don't you ever, for a single second, think that I am going to do what I did tonight for you  _ever_  again," she snapped. "I want nothing else to do with your little excursions. I want nothing else to do with those people you call 'friends'."

Tom stared at the locket on the floor. His mother's locket – proof of his heritage, his legacy. He'd been biding his time for years, searching relentlessly for any whisper of its whereabouts, any trace.

Then, he'd found it. He'd finally  _fucking_  found it, but the person who had it in their possession was no easy target. Caractacus Burke was an old wizard, but he wasn't weak and he wasn't stupid. He had professional ties tied  _tighter_  than tight and friends in high places; people who would waste their precious time and resources on thoroughly finding his murderer. It was too risky to do things Tom's way.

When he found out the man had a secret penchant for poppy seeds and prostitutes, it had been Hermione's idea for someone to impersonate as one, seduce and get him high, then rob him blind. The plan was  _brilliant_ in its simplicity. It might've been his idea to poison him and make it look like an overdose. It also might've been his idea for Hermione to play the part, too. But it was just so  _easy_  to make his death look like an accident. Not only that, those ties Burke had previously had would fray and snap once it got out that he'd died in an opium den. His reputation would be ruined in his death.

But now that all his waiting was done, now that all his carefully laid plans have been finalized, now that he finally had Slytherin's locket in his possession, it all felt… _incredibly_  anticlimactic.

Tom gave a long-suffering sigh, pinched the bridge of his nose, and asked, "And what  _else_  do you want, Hermione?"

"Nothing that you can give me. Not anymore," she replied coldly, leaving him there, alone, with her hidden meanings he didn't care to decipher.

* * *

If he were being honest with himself, he wasn't sure when it all began – this sick obsession of his.

Perhaps it all began when he caught her with that Muggle boy from the village when she was only sixteen.

Perhaps it all began on the evening when he first found out about her existence, found out about her magic.

Or, perhaps, this sickness had always been with him. Maybe the same, depraved sickness from his mother's side of the family infected his blood, as well.

After spending his entire life wondering who he really was, wondering what had happened to his family, he'd finally tracked them down in the outskirts of a small town called Little Hangleton.

The condition of the shack was appalling, to say the least. He couldn't understand how it was even standing, unless it was being aided by weak, flimsy magic. And when he met his uncle, he couldn't understand how he –  _he_  – could've come from a family like this. He was the fluke in the gene pool, that much was obvious. It was embarrassing. A disappointment. An insult.

Tom had planned on just turning around and leaving the man there, mid-rant, when something caught his attention.

" _What_  Muggle?" he'd asked.

Morfin told him. It all went downhill from there. Red – that's all he saw and all he felt, was  _red_.

After he stupefied Morfin and stole his wand, he made his way to Riddle manor on a mission.

It hadn't been a reunion filled with happy tears and hugs – not like he'd been expecting anything of the sort, or would've even  _welcomed_  it in the first place, but the pure  _fear_  of him from his father nearly surprised him.

He'd begged Tom to leave, begged him to not hurt his wife.

"… _wife_?" Tom asked quietly. This wasn't something he'd been expecting, for his father to be remarried, considering how he'd cast  _his_  mother aside like filth so easily. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't even asked how she was – where she was. He didn't care. He never cared.

It was that moment, right there. He was going to kill him – he'd already decided, but then the heavy wooden door to the study swung open, making his father jump in alarm.

A little girl, who couldn't've been older than ten, burst into the room. Her brown curls were pinned back on either side of her head with white barrettes and she was wearing a cream-colored nightgown. Her cheeks and eyes were splotched with red, as if she'd just been crying.

"Papa! Papa! It happened again!"

Something slammed into Tom, taking his breath away and leaving him dizzy. At first, he thought it might be the shock of finding out that not only was his father alive and well and sickeningly rich, but he had a  _sister_. He'd thrown Tom out, but had kept  _her_. His cold gaze leveled on the girl, feeling all his betrayal, hurt, and rage directed solely on her.

But that's when he felt exactly what that something was –  _magic._  Residual. Not his. Tom slid the hidden wand back into his robes, schooling his features.

"What happened?" he asked her.

She didn't even jump at his voice – simply turned her head and studied him curiously, oblivious to her father's anxiety at them speaking with one another.

"The light bulb in my lamp burst," she replied, blinking curiously at him. Then she turned to their father. "I'm sorry, Papa. I didn't realize you had company. Should I just fetch Ms. Collins to help me sweep the mess?"

Before he realized what he was doing, Tom stood. "I'll help you."

Their father shot out of his chair, his whole body and face stiff with a mixture of barely concealed fear and rage. "That will  _not_  be necessary."

"Oh, it will be no inconvenience, at all; I assure you," Tom replied, waving off the older man with his best false smile, then turned to the girl. "Why don't you go fetch the broom and I'll meet you in a moment."

She frowned slightly. "You don't know where my room is. I haven't even shown you."

Tom smiled wider. "I'll find you."

Her lower lip pulled over her top lip in a childlike manner as she observed him ever closer, then she nodded. "Alright."

Once she left the room and shut the door behind her, Tom Sr. hunched over his desk in a desperate panic that only a parent could relate to.

"If it's money you want, I'll give it to you. I'll pay for whatever education you desire. I'll buy you your own house. Give you a vacation home. Anything you could possibly want or need, but  _please,_  for the love of God,  _don't_  hurt Hermione," he begged.

 _Hermione_ , he thought bitterly.  _She was even gifted with a unique name_.

"What a way to add insult to injury,  _Father_ ," Tom spat, his father wincing. "By offering the son you cared less than nothing about  _so much_ in return, just to keep your precious daughter safe."

Tom Sr. took a deep breath. "Listen, Tom, I understand that you're upset –"

" _Don't you dare try to understand what I'm feeling!_ " he thundered, his magic crackling dangerously around him. He reeled himself back in quickly. His father glared at a spot on the floor. Tom didn't want to understand what his father might be feeling, either. He didn't want his pity. He didn't want his sympathy. He didn't want his affection.

He knew what he really wanted.

"Everything," Tom said quietly, breathing hard.

His father frowned in confusion. "What?"

"What I want in return for her safety. I want  _everything_. This manor. Your vacation homes. Your cars. Your money. Everything you own, from your furniture, all the way down to your  _fucking_  cufflinks. Do you understand me? Put in your last will and testament that everything goes to me after you die, and I will make sure no harm comes to her."

They stared at each other for what felt like minutes, a silent confrontation.

Finally, Tom Sr. spoke. "I have to leave  _something_  to her. She simply cannot be left with  _nothing_  to her name. Her education –"

"No," Tom interjected.

His father scoffed. "You would really leave your own  _sister_  with  _nothing_? What if I died tomorrow? Hell! Tonight? She's only a  _child_!"

 _And I_   _was only an infant_ , Tom thought, incensed.

"You're in no position to negotiate. Everything goes to me.  _All of it_. I've already told you, leave everything to me and I swear no harm will come to her. Ever. And if you don't, well…" Tom trailed off, letting his eyes linger to the door Hermione had just walked through as emphasis, then back to his father. "Unlike you, I  _keep_  my vows."

Tom Sr.'s shoulders bowed in defeat underneath the final blow. "It…will be done. I shall call for my solicitor in the morning."

This man just agreed to signing away everything he owned for his child's safety. So self-sacrificing. So loving. So desperate.

Is this what parents were?

Tom should have felt victorious, but he only felt hollow.

* * *

Hermione sat with her legs folded underneath her as she frustratingly tried to fold another piece of paper by candlelight. She ignored all the crumpled sheets surrounding her by focusing as hard as she could, mentally promising herself that she was  _not_  going to get it wrong this time.

Her temper had begun to flare again as she struggled with her project, when there was a knock at her door.

"Come in," she called, not bothering to look up from her task.

It was close. So,  _so_  close. Perhaps, if she just folded the corner  _this_  way this time, then…

A frustrated shriek tore from her throat when she ended up getting it wrong –  _again_. She balled the paper up in her hand and beat it as hard as she could against the floor in a rage. Hot, angry tears spilled down her face as she started shredding the paper into little pieces, throwing them away from her as hard as she could. The papers only fluttered to the floor right in front of her, which infuriated her even further. She flung her bare feet in front of her, using them to frantically shove everything away from herself, then threw her back against the floor.

Hermione pressed her palms into her eyes, crying even harder in her tantrum. "I can't do it! I'm doing it  _exactly_  how I saw them do it and it still  _isn't working_!"

"What is it that you are trying to do?"

Hermione tensed. She'd forgotten that someone had knocked on her door. She'd assumed it'd been her mum coming to tuck her in, but they were  _definitely_  not her mum.

Sitting up, she rubbed the tears and snot away with her sleeve, then looked at the stranger in her darkened room. It was the boy from her Papa's study. The light from her candle poured against his features, making him appear like one of the fae creatures described in her stories. Beautiful and terrifying. But she knew that he was just a boy, not a fae. It was silly to fear a boy. "Oh, I forgot you were coming. My name's Hermione Riddle. What's yours?"

He froze, then slowly replied, "Tom."

She gasped, then replied excitedly, "That's my Papa's name, as well! You know, you look an awful lot like him."

He frowned, not sharing in her excitement. Instead, his eyes scanned her room, then he looked back at her. "Where is the glass?"

Hermione's shoulders pulled back in pride. " _I_  cleaned it up  _all_  by myself."

Tom hummed, then looked at the evidence of her tantrum scattered across the floor. She felt her face burn in embarrassment, then hurried to pick up the papers. "I'll clean this up by myself, too."

He leaned over and picked up one of her earlier attempts, turning it over in his hands. "What is this supposed to be?"

With a severe frown, Hermione snatched it out of his hand, stuffing it and the rest of her trash into the bin. "It's  _supposed_  to be a bird, but it's ugly and it's stupid and I  _hate_  it!"

She knew her mother and father would be very disappointed if they found out how she was acting in front of a guest, but she couldn't help it.

"I can show you," he offered.

Hermione looked at him skeptically. " _You_  know how to make an origami bird?"

Tom nodded once. "Hand me two sheets of paper."

Doing as she was told, Hermione quickly handed him two crisp, flat pieces of paper. When he sat on the floor, Hermione plopped right down next to him, eager to learn what he had to teach her.

"Here," he said, handing her one of the sheets. "Do as I do."

Hermione nodded, carefully watching the way he folded a corner and ran his thumbnail along the crease. Then she did it with her own paper, peering over at his again to make sure she did it the right way.

"Do you often get that upset?" he asked conversationally.

She shrugged, not really wanting to talk about it. It wasn't exactly her favorite subject, her temper tantrums. Especially with a stranger. "Sometimes."

Tom hummed, then folded another side down. She copied him again, finding it was getting easier.

"And how many light bulbs have you broken over these little fits of yours?"

Hermione's head snapped to look at him, her eyes wide and her heart thundering. Tom wasn't looking at her, but he had a knowing smirk on his lips.

Swallowing thickly, she answered, "Twenty-nine."

He looked at her, and his smirk turned into a smile. But not like a regular, cheerful smile her Papa wore whenever he wasn't working. It was a greedy smile that was all teeth, ready to devour. "Impressive."

Avoiding his eyes, but secretly enjoying his praise, Hermione focused back on her paper. "Papa told you, didn't he? He said I'm not supposed to tell anyone, because they'll try to come and take me away."

" _Who_  might come and take you away?"

Leaning closer to him, she cupped her hand to her mouth, and whispered conspiratorially in his ear, "The  _Pagans_."

When she pulled away from him, his eyebrows were raised and he repeated skeptically, "The Pagans?"

Hermione nodded excitedly. "They've been sending Papa letters, you know. I've seen them, but I don't know what they say. He won't let me read them."

Tom was silent as he continued showing her the folds. It was nice, talking to someone who wasn't Mother or Papa or Ms. Collins. And it was exciting, talking about  _this_.

"I often wonder what they've written about. Nasty things, I bet. Like how they want to run tests on me or maybe dissect my chest cavity open. Maybe they want to keep my body parts in  _jars_ ," she spoke excitedly, following along with his movements.

"You," Tom started, but paused long enough to fold one last time. He held up his perfectly creased bird in his palm to his eye level, then looked past it at her before continuing, "are an  _exceedingly_  morbid little girl, aren't you?"

Blushing, she looked down on her project and muttered, "Mother says I'm going to make my teachers at the boarding school resort to drinking once I'm there, if I don't smarten up."

Tom made a snorting noise that sounded like he might've been laughing at her and trying to hide it. She didn't like that very much.

Hermione pursed her lips into a pout and frowned slightly at him, then mimicked his last fold. She held up her completed paper bird in her palm, imitating Tom yet again, her sour mood gone.

"Look! I did it! I finally did it!" she squealed in delight, grinning ear to ear.

"I'm not finished yet. Watch," he told her.

He drew in a deep breath and gently blew on his bird, and Hermione could hardly believe her eyes. It came to life, it's wings beating rapidly as it lifted off and fluttered past her head. She whirled around from her spot on the floor to follow the white bird with her eyes in the darkness of her room, in complete awe. It circled around the room twice, then landed back in Tom's hand, lifeless.

Hermione leaned toward him eagerly, staring up at him in wonder. "Teach me."

He smiled that toothy smile of his again, but she found that she didn't mind it all that much anymore.

* * *

When Tom returned to the study, his father was nursing three fingers of whiskey.

"I'll be staying here during the Christmas holidays. And the summers," he announced in a tone that left no room for debate.

Tom Sr. hadn't even bothered looking up. He just took another sip of his drink. "I suppose I don't have much of a choice in the matter, do I?"

"At last, you're finally getting the hang of this."

His father looked up at him with a scowl. "Just because you hold all the strings over my life now, doesn't mean I'm going to tolerate your disrespect. Or did you plan on killing me as soon as your name is put on my will?"

Yes, that had been his original plan. But then he thought of the raw, powerful magic that swirled around his sister and that greedy gleam in her eye; he thought of how he could control that and use it for his own gain; he thought of how she reminded him of himself.

But Tom still had two years of school at Hogwarts left. If he went through with his original plan, it meant that he'd have to concern himself with the welfare of his sister and that's not something he had the time or energy for.

"Don't give me a reason to kill you, and you'll have nothing to worry about," he replied.

"So…she's given you a change of heart," his father stated resentfully.

"How long have you known?" Tom asked with a tilt of his head, knowing that the other man would know exactly what he was asking about.

Tom Sr. stared through his glass tumbler. "Two years. Shortly after her ninth birthday."

"I'm assuming you haven't replied to her acceptance letter yet."

His father shot him a look of mixture between surprise and hatred. "How did you know about that?"

Tom sat back in his chair, a triumphant smirk on his face. "She told me, of course."

* * *

"Teach me how to do that," she asked him again, leaning forward with a covetous glint in her amber eyes.

His smile widened at her eagerness. "I'm not allowed to teach you this. Not here. Not now."

She made an indignant noise, the tips of her fingers digging into the floor until they'd turned white. Her magic sparked to life again in her irritation, lashing out around her. "Why ever not?"

"Because there are rules in place, rules in which I cannot break. We're alike, Hermione. In many ways. There's a special school I attend called Hogwarts, where they teach children like you and I how to harness their magic," he told her.

"Magic?" she echoed elatedly. "Like faeries and elves?"

Tom shook his head. "No. Like wizards and witches. And you'll be attending, too."

"What? When?" she asked in disbelief.

"Next month."

Hermione's excited expression turned into a pout. "My parents would never allow me to go. I'm meant to go to Haberdashers' next month."

"Oh, don't you worry about that. I'll convince them," he promised.

"How?"

At this, the corners of his lips lifted, relishing in the power he held over them – over  _her_. So young. So impressionable. So eager to learn and please. So easy to manipulate and mold into something he could use.

"I have my ways," he replied.

* * *

**A/N:** Here's my fucked up sibling au, as promised. I'm in love. I thought this was going to be a one-shot, but it turned into a ficlet. Five chapters or so. On a lighter note, I kept trying to write 'tumbler' as 'tumblr' and I was trying to figure out why the fuck spellcheck was flagging me. I'm a fucking mess. Hahahaha.

 


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